The forest felt different the next morning.
Elias noticed it the moment he opened his eyes beneath the sheltering roots of the old tree. The pressure that had pressed into his bones the night before was gone, leaving behind a strange, ringing emptiness. As if the weight of another mind had lifted but not without leaving fingerprints behind.
He lay still for a moment, listening.
Duskwood was quiet.Not silent—quiet.
There was a difference.
Birds were always absent here. So were insects. But the forest usually breathed with its own rhythm: the creaking of old wood, the whisper of unseen movement, the pulse of mana through soil and bark. Today, that pulse remained, but slower. Heavy. As if the forest was sleeping after watching him too closely the night before.
Or recovering from it.
His chest ached—deep, steady, rhythmic. Not the sharp stab of instability he used to feel, but a dull soreness, like bruised bone. He pressed his palm lightly against his sternum.
The fracture hadn't healed.
It had changed.
He wasn't sure whether that was good or bad.
He sat up slowly. The roots above him were tangled and massive, forming a natural dome. Moisture dripped from their edges now that dawn filtered faint light into the clearing. A few droplets slid down onto his shoulder, cold and sharp against his skin.
Elias brushed them off and stood.
His legs trembled for one breath before steadying. He expected that—after last night's forced resonance, even standing was proof of will, not health.
Once steady, he checked his supplies:
dried meat: low
water: manageable
firewood: none
and his dagger… still missing
He scanned the ground. No sign of metal reflecting light. No disturbance i
He sighed through his nose.
I'll have to make another.
It wasn't ideal—he preferred efficiency, not redundancy—but losing an item in the middle of a living formation wasn't surprising.
The forest shifted slightly, not in movement but in awareness. He felt it at the edge of perception, like an eye half-open. Watching. Assessing.
Elias ignored it and stepped out of the shelter.
Mist clung to the ground. The air was cool and damp, carrying the metallic scent of dense mana. His senses felt sharper than usual—not enhanced, just more… connected. As if the world's edges were clearer.
He couldn't tell whether that was a blessing or another side effect of what had happened the night before.
He made his way toward the stream.
Water first.Then tracking.Then planning.
The stream appeared exactly where it should be—a narrow, fast-running ribbon cutting through the dark undergrowth. Its surface shimmered faintly, reflecting the pale light that filtered through the branches.
He knelt, cupped water in his hands, and drank. The cold slid through him, clearing the last haze of sleep.
As he lowered his hands, his reflection rippled. Not because of movement, but because something beneath the surface stirred. A shadow—not his own—glided along the bottom of the stream.
Elias's fingers twitched toward the absent dagger.
The shadow didn't rise.
Didn't attack.
It simply drifted, as if patrolling.
He watched it for a long moment.
Is this you, he wondered silently toward the presence within his chest, or another part of the forest?
No answer came.
He splashed water onto his face and stood.
Time to move.
He followed the stream instead of heading deeper into the forest. He needed to map the outer terrain. Without his dagger, avoiding confrontation was ideal. Besides, the outer edges of the forest were the closest thing to safety Duskwood could offer.
After fifteen minutes of walking, he noticed something odd: the trees here were further apart than yesterday. Clearer paths. Less mist. More visibility.
Duskwood wasn't pushing him back in.
It was letting him go.
That alone was unsettling.
Elias slowed his pace.
"Are you finished with me?" he murmured.
A breeze stirred, rustling the leaves. Not an answer, but not indifference either. The forest was not silent.
It was thoughtful.
He continued walking until the trees thinned enough for sunlight to break through. The shift in brightness stung his eyes at first. Birds—not many, but a few—chirped somewhere beyond the ridge. Normal life, existing just outside Duskwood's reach.
His steps slowed.
Ahead of him, through the thinning trees, the forest opened into a wide sloping hill covered in patchy grass and stone.
The edge of Duskwood.
He'd found it.
Elias stood still, one foot inside the shadows, the other nearly touching sunlight. The line between them felt sharp, like crossing it meant something final.
Leaving the forest should have brought relief.
Instead, the emptiness in his chest deepened.
He wasn't attached to the forest—not emotionally. But the presence, the pressure, the danger… it had created a kind of clarity. A sharpening of purpose.
Out here, the world was too open. Too uncertain.
Too unaffected by his existence.
The forest had cared—if examining, testing, and nearly killing him counted as a form of caring.
He stepped forward anyway.
The sunlight warmed his skin.
He blinked until his eyes adjusted. A breeze brushed across his hair, carrying the scent of grass instead of old roots and damp bark.
For the first time since the attack on his village, Elias felt something he couldn't name. Not comfort. Not safety.
Possibility.
He continued down the slope, eyes scanning the horizon. The land stretched far, dotted with distant hills. Smoke rose faintly from somewhere far to the east—a settlement? A caravan? Or the remnants of another tragedy?
He needed information. Without it, planning was impossible.
A rustle sounded behind him.
Elias spun, tension humming across his shoulders.
A figure stepped out from the treeline.
For a heartbeat, Elias imagined roots shifting or shadows crawling—but it wasn't the forest this time.
It was a boy.
Older than Elias by a few years, with dark hair tied messily at the back and a lean, hardened build. His clothes were worn, patched in places, meant for travel rather than comfort. A short spear rested in his hand, not raised but ready.
His eyes—sharp, alert, tired—locked onto Elias immediately.
Recognition flickered across his expression.
Not of Elias specifically.
Of survival.
Elias recognized it too.He had seen that look in mirrors—both in this life and the last.
The boy spoke first.
"You came from the forest… didn't you?"
Elias didn't answer.
The boy looked him over quickly, assessing posture, injuries, possible threat level.
"You're alive," he said quietly, almost disbelieving. "No one comes out of there alive."
Elias remained silent.
The boy lowered the spear just slightly—not out of trust, but out of something like respect.
"My name's Arin," he said. "Arin Valdor."
Elias studied him a moment longer.
Arin wasn't lying.
More importantly—Arin wasn't afraid. Not of Elias. Not of Duskwood. He had fear, yes, but it was functional fear, the kind that kept someone cautious without paralyzing them.
Interesting.
Elias finally spoke.
"…Elias."
Arin nodded once. "You look half-dead, Elias."
"I'm alive," Elias replied simply.
"That's enough," Arin said. "Come on. If you just got out of Duskwood, you need food, rest, and somewhere safer than the open field."
Elias considered refusing—but the truth was practical.
He needed supplies.He needed information.And Arin, so far, seemed useful.
He followed.
Not because he trusted him.
Because survival required more than one shadow.